


Abashed, the Devil Stood

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga), Devilman Lady
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Sexual Situations, Canon Merging, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Hospitalization, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Rebuilding, Recovered Memories, Recovery, Reincarnation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 06:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: And felt how awful goodness is.The world is a mess from the divine mano-a-mano that was the Apocalypse. There's a hundred or so countries that need to be rebuilt, a brownie or several million that were left in the oven while the forces of Heaven and Hell had their respective hissy fits, and a lot of awkwardness that needs to be parsed through. Namely, Ryo has a lot of explaining to do.





	Abashed, the Devil Stood

**Author's Note:**

> A commission work for the loveliest of lovelies, [Anella](http://anellatulip.tumblr.com)! Mostly, this is a fix-it fic for the mess that was the Devilman Lady manga, combined with p much everything I liked from all the other versions of Devilman. Also, there's Satan tiddie motorboating. Hopefully y'all enjoy it. <3

Akira supposed he expected more out of an apocalyptic battle between the forces of heaven and hell. Revelations painted a more majestic picture, at least, with far more symbolism. In the Biblical view of the whole affair, there were far more seals and lamps and strange uses of numbers like six and seven. The reality of it was admittedly awesome to watch, provided anyone had lived through the first set of ordeals to watch Satan joining forces with demons and humans alike. No angels stood with a foot on land and a foot in the sea, and none of the were crowned with a rainbow. If there were four horsemen, Akira didn’t see mane or tail of any of them. There was a _lot_ of fighting, though. That was kind of cool to see.  
  
But Akira wasn’t in the fight to watch Biblical prophecy go through its motions, or to finally dash away aeons of strife between God and Satan. That was all in someone else’s court and way above Akira’s proverbial pay grade. He was there because he was _pissed._ He was pissed at the cycles of time and space that were only intended to hurt Ryo; to _punish_ him. He was pissed at being used as a device for the torture of one of the people who mattered most to him. He was pissed that humanity had to keep going through the same shit while praying to the same god that was supposed to have loved them and made them in his image. He was pissed that he got tossed into Hell to serve as the world’s worst tour guide, even after he had all but turned himself inside out to help humanity.  
  
No, he couldn’t generate prismatic beams of light that could wipe out entire nations in a sweep. He didn’t wield a holy lance or hide behind a shield forged in mythical fire. In this iteration of himself, in this little fold of time and space, he could do some seriously _awesome_ stuff with his eyebrows, and he could breathe fire.   
  
What mattered, though, wasn’t the fight itself. It wasn’t the act of witnessing a Biblical deathmatch several thousand years and countless reincarnation cycles in the making. What mattered to him, at the end, was that Ryo was by his side, not his enemy, not keeping a single secret from him anymore. _If_ they lived through the Official Big Bad Apocalypse, they were going to have to do a lot of talking, though. Ryo had some explaining to do.  
  
That was a _very_ big ‘if’.  
  
One of the last things he remembered was an enormous beam of light leveled directly at his head, probably intended to leave a smoking crater where his neck would be. There was a great cacophony that followed, full of sounds that no human ear had probably ever heard. At one moment, there was a horrible screeching sound like a fifty car pile-up, thousands of glass panes shattering, an entire ship’s worth of metal bending, and hundreds of screams, all happening at _once_. Akira only caught a glance of Michael, full of righteous heavenly fury and decked out in armor so damn _blinding_ that he almost wanted to call it gaudy. For being the image of holy justice, his face was contorted into a snarl of rage that Akira wouldn’t call angelic.  
  
Then again, he couldn’t call Michael much of anything, seeing as how he suddenly felt paralyzed, light filling every edge of his vision, and the blurry, rippling shape of Ryo’s army dancing like a heat mirage in his eyes, hovering over an earth that looked like it was falling away from under his feet. He couldn’t tell if he was falling _up_ or _down_ or if he was falling at all. All he could think was how he was sure he had lasted longer in the previous cycles when he fought Ryo. Now, he would be one of the first to go. That didn’t seem fair.  
  
The _absolute_ last thing he remembered was this; the beam had hit him, maybe. He wasn’t sure, but he must have fared better than he could imagine as he could still see the battle moving in angry torrents of light and dark in front of him. Little comets of light fell to the earth like a meteor shower, and black clouds of smoke trailed after them. And, in the center of it all was a bright, radiant figure that he just _knew_ was Ryo.   
  
And Ryo—   
  
Ryo was missing a wing. One had been torn away from his body, leaving an ugly black scar on an otherwise perfectly pristine creature. He had folded in a bit on himself, leveling a glare at Michael.  
  
Michael, who had injured him.  
  
Michael, Ryo’s brother, the archangel, an instrument of the stupid, backward divine justice that God had oh-so-mercifully felt was now his to grant to his wayward child.  
  
Michael, who needed to _die._  
  
The last thing Akira remembered was this scene, playing out in monochrome. The last thing he remembered _hearing_ , however, was Amon’s voice, whisper-quiet in the back of his head. “ _Let me, Akira,”_ Amon said, oddly soft and not as full of raw bravado as he typically was. “ _All we’ve done up until now is live two lives, with you suppressing me. I’ve fought back, in anger, in rebellion. But now..._ ”  
  
Akira expected something about an offer of fusion, a chance for Amon and Akira to become one cellular entity, unable to be pried apart.   
  
“ _I want to rip that fucker’s head off and shove it down his pretty little throat,”_ Amon snarled, with every ounce of ferocity that Akira knew him for.  
  
Akira grinned, falling or not, and let it happen.  
  
It was the last thing he remembered, before Amon took over to rip Michael and God a _righteous_ new one.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)


End file.
